


Open Up and Take it Slowly

by PolypusRegina



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Demon Stiles, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Frottage, M/M, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-04
Updated: 2013-03-04
Packaged: 2017-12-04 06:19:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/707504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PolypusRegina/pseuds/PolypusRegina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles has too much of that infamous 'spark' to contain a demonic entity for very long. But that won't stop it from causing a little chaos while it has the chance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Open Up and Take it Slowly

**Author's Note:**

> A couple quick things~ This is the first fic I've written in a long time since I lost my um...fic-writing mojo. So I apologize if it's a little rusty. I hope it's not too terrible. 
> 
> Second, I know people have varying opinions on how to handle demon!Stiles AU's, so please note that this is just my personal take on one possibility, and I apologize if it's not your favorite. 
> 
> Last, I'm assuming the brief torture discussed isn't graphic enough to warrant a warning, but if it is, let me know. Thanks! Happy reading.

He’s safe in his own bed when he wakes.

Stiles rubs at his eyes and gives a tired grunt of a yawn, like he would any other morning. He might not have been a teenager anymore, but finally crossing over into his twenties didn’t mean he liked getting out of bed any more than he did in high school. The only thing that seemed different was that he realized it wasn’t actually morning at all, and he was still fully dressed, denim clinging to his legs and rumpled plaid bunching up under his arms as he pulled himself up. And there also the slightly worrisome fact that he didn’t exactly remember going to bed. When he glanced over at his clock, it read 11:46 in bright red, and a high moon filled his room with an eerie—yet useful—wash of light.

But for the most part, Stiles found it easy to ignore the creeping uneasiness he felt as he got to his feet, chalking it up to sleep deprivation or some other common college ailment. It wasn’t until he went to tug his shirt off that he noticed something stiff and sticky under his fingers.

“What the hell--…Ugh.”

With a disgusted sigh, he lifted the hem of his shirt up to inspect it, anticipating literally anything other than what he found staining the fabric. Blood. For anyone that wasn’t well-acquainted with the stuff, they might have mistaken it for something else dark and tacky, but Stiles knew it all too well to be anything but one-hundred percent sure, and that’s when the panic began to set in.

Or rather, it was the start of a very heavy confusion. The real panic didn’t quite come until later, after Stiles had looked up to see his computer was turned on, and a video player filled the screen. Which normally wouldn’t have been anything scary, but after waking up covered in blood that he was fairly certain wasn’t his own, everything suddenly felt like it belonged in a horror movie.

Consequently, it took a minute or two for Stiles to get the courage to even approach his computer, taking cautious steps away from his bed after he yanked his shirt off in a burst of frenzied action and tossed it into the corner of his room like it was cursed. But who wouldn’t have been a little freaked out about strange blood popping up on their clothes? He felt he was being remarkably calm about the whole thing. Gold star proud of himself, really.

But when he finally stood in front of his desk, his nervous fingers found the back of his chair first, as if he was afraid to touch anything else, which…well, he kind of was. The still image glowing on the screen was familiar to him, the open, empty space of Derek’s loft. Why he apparently had a video of Derek’s loft open on his computer was the mystery of the century, and without even pausing to think about it, he reached forward and hit ‘play’.

The screen stays the same for a few seconds, and just when Stiles begins to wonder if the video is actually playing at all, there’s a sudden movement off to the right side, and that’s when he notices there’s no sound. He checks his speakers, but they’re fine. Just dead silent. And then he can’t help wondering if it was done on purpose. His train of thought is derailed, though, when he realizes that ‘movement’ is actually someone’s body being dragged across the floor, and yes, that’s so much worse. For some creepy stalker-cam, the video is a surprisingly good quality, so it doesn’t take long for Stiles to recognize the dark-haired werewolf now lying in a heap on the floor, pulled somewhere near the center of the video frame. Stiles feels a panicky whine rise up in the back of his throat, but the sound never makes it out. It ends up caught hard on the back of his tongue when he recognizes the second figure, the one rearranging Derek’s body like a massive ragdoll. It was Stiles, wearing the same plaid shirt he’d just torn off. Of course, it took a moment for him to be sure, though. The image was crystal clear, but accepting what he was looking at took time. And in that time, ‘Stiles’ had propped Derek against one of the steel beams that impaled his makeshift home.

The Stiles he was watching was fast--he didn't fumble or trip over his own feet. Every movement seemed terrifyingly graceful and well-planned, like he knew what he wanted to do and exactly how he wanted to do it, which wasn’t like him at all.  In a matter of what seemed like a few seconds, he had Derek's hands bound back behind him, around the unforgiving steel he was leaned back against. It wasn't until Derek began to stir that Stiles was sure he was even still alive, and a gust of air forced itself from his lungs as a breath he didn't know he'd been holding. But the relief was short-lived. The Stiles on the screen looked satisfied with his handiwork around Derek's wrists, but didn't seem very concerned with binding any other part of him. The poor alpha looked too weak to even try anything, his shoulders slumping forward in what looked like an exhausted sort of acceptance. Without any sound, it was difficult to tell if the timid movement of Derek’s mouth was speech or not, but judging by the way Bizarro-Stiles seemed to respond, it must have been. When Derek finally lifted his head, it was easy to tell he would have been furious—or horrified—if he wasn’t so wrecked, and seeing him look so confused and sluggish was probably the worst part of the video so far. It was so completely unlike the man he knew, it had Stiles’ stomach dropping to his knees.

Stiles could have stopped right there. He knew he should have. He knew whatever was coming next, whatever filled the remaining however-many minutes of the video couldn't have been anything good.   
But he didn't. His hand itched like it wanted to reach out and stop the video, but his every thought was too focused on what was happening to listen to what his body wanted.

Over the next few minutes, he watched Derek and ‘Stiles’ speak, watched the tension grow in the werewolf’s body and dissolve into such physical helplessness it made him ache. He eventually came to the conclusion that Derek must have been drugged, and whatever it was must have been strong, to turn him into something so pliant and submissive, and he could only imagine how pathetic it must have made him feel to be that way.

His wandering thoughts were stopped in their tracks, though, when suddenly the innocent banter seemed to change direction, and Stiles was crouched between Derek’s knees, pressing closer toward his face as he spoke, like he was addressing a child that refused to listen. And then the alpha was growing tense all over again, as if he wasn’t liking what he was hearing. As if it scared him. He even started to struggle a little against his bonds, but the weak attempt was ended just as quickly as it had started when the young man in front of him wrapped a hand around Derek’s throat and pinned him hard to the steel pillar in a very obvious warning. Stiles flinched—the first time he’d moved an inch since he’d started the video—and suddenly realized he’d been holding his breath again. His lungs began to burn and his heart throbbed in his ribcage hard enough to crack it, but everything seemed to stop completely when the Stiles on screen reached into his pocket, and his hand came back up with a switchblade tucked neatly in his palm.

Oh. That looked familiar, too.

Before he even knew what his own body was doing, he was shoving a hand into the pocket of his jeans and yanking out the knife his father had given him on one of their fishing trips. And that too, was sticky with dried blood. Another horrified whine was building at the back of his throat as he threw it across the room to join his soiled shirt, and his head snapped back up to look at his computer, his pulse pounding and his hands starting to tremble. What he was met with was a terrifying vision of his own face looking back at him, with wide, black eyes and an unsettling smirk. A string of desperate, helpless _no_ , _god, no,_ began pouring from his lips and his hands itched to reach out and stop it to do _something_ but there was nothing he could do as the creature—the demon—turned his attention back to Derek still pinned beneath him, and promptly plunged the blade into his stomach.  His useless rambling turned into an empty, choked sounding sob, and then it was silent again.

He watched Derek double up on himself and grit his teeth through the pain, but with a sharp ache of his own, Stiles knew he’d suffered far worse injuries. It wasn’t much of a comfort though. None of that really mattered as he watched his image on the screen, watched him drag the knife up through Derek’s gut and watched the alpha’s mouth drop open in a noiseless cry before he snapped it shut again (and for that, Stiles was suddenly incredibly grateful there was no sound).

Though he and Derek didn’t always have the smoothest, most functional relationship, there wasn’t any part of him that wanted to see him in pain, and there were a lot of feelings that went unmentioned, ignored, and suddenly now they only made things worse.

 _Now_ there was real panic. And a lot of it.

Stiles flailed—there simply was no other word for it—fighting with himself on whether or not to keep watching, but his body refused to cooperate when he reached for the keyboard. His eyes remained glued to the screen and all he could hear was the frantic ringing in his ears, while the other Stiles finally pulled the blade free, and held it in one hand while his other clutched at Derek’s hair, yanking his head back and forcing him to offer the horrifyingly vulnerable length of his throat.

Blood bubbled up in Derek’s mouth and spilled over his bottom lip when it looked like he was trying to talk again. Or maybe just breathe. It poured over the taut lines in his neck in dark streams and stained his grey shirt in blooms of awful crimson, where his chest was heaving with every breath. The demon using Stiles’ body looked disgustingly pleased with himself, and lifted the tip of the knife to the soft spot on the underside of Derek’s jaw. He spoke, undoubtedly spewing some insult or taunt before Stiles realized the blade was slowing sinking into the wolf’s skin, and more blood welled up around it where it pierced his flesh. A startled cry ripped itself from Stiles’ throat as he watched the knife sink to the hilt, and then the screen went black.

But before he could do anything else, his hands froze above his keyboard when he suddenly noticed a sticky note tucked beneath his monitor. Written in what could have almost passed for his own handwriting was a single sentence.

_It was fun while it lasted._

He barely makes it to the bathroom before he throws up.

Stiles didn’t really care what time it was as it crept past midnight; ignoring everything he’d just witnessed and going back to bed just wasn’t an option. A nervous adrenaline still raced through his veins and even as he got dressed, he never strayed far from the bathroom in case his body decided he needed to vomit again. He would later realize how incredible it was that he didn’t just dissolve into a full-on panic attack, but at the moment, as he’s bounding down the stairs and out his front door, he doesn’t pause to appreciate it.

Unfortunately, he kind of has to pause once he runs out onto his porch and collides with another body.

Luckily, that ‘other body’ has werewolf reflexes, and they very narrowly manage to avoid tumbling to the ground.

“Scott? What…I can’t really, not right now,” Stiles starts rambling as he takes a step back and regains his balance, unshed tears of panic burning in his eyes. But before he could run off again, Scott reaches out to push a firm palm into his shoulder.

“Dude, relax,” he answers, his voice—ironically—a little shaky. “What’s wrong? Derek called me to ask me to come check on you, and he actually used the words ‘please’ and ‘be careful’, and if that isn’t reason to worry, I don’t know what is.” He manages a weak chuckle and a nervous grin, but they don’t stay very long. His face falls in sudden concern but not before Stiles can blurt out:

“Derek’s alive?”

It throws Scott so horribly, he just gapes at his friend for a few seconds before he can reply.

“I uh…I’d assume so. He sounded pretty alive on the phone. Worried, but…alive. Stiles, what the hell is going on?”

“I don’t know, I gotta go.”

“What— _what?_ Stiles!”

It’s too late, though, he’s already past Scott and in the front seat of his Jeep with a garbled, apologetic shout that isn’t even really a full sentence. Scott watches from the porch as Stiles peels out of the driveway and buries his face in his hands with a groan.

\---------

Derek had been smart enough to have spare keys made for his pack, which, yes, that included Stiles (and to Stiles’ slight amusement, _not_ Scott). But until now, he’d never needed to use it.

He didn’t know what time it was as he left his car and made his way up to the alpha’s loft, but he didn’t particularly care. He had questions and he wasn’t about to leave until he had his answers. More than that, though, he just needed to know Derek was all right, because he had a fifteen minute video that suggested he really, really wasn’t.

As easy as it would have been to just call out and get Derek’s attention, it seemed so horribly quiet, he couldn’t bring himself to break the silence. Moonlight flooded in through the tall, industrial windows that lined one wall, and he was incredibly grateful for it, because he didn’t much feel like trying to find a working light switch, either. In fact, he was still so anxious and restless it was a miracle he made it up the spiral staircase without tripping and killing himself. (On his way there, he very deliberately avoided looking at the dark stains that streaked the floor near one of the metal beams. _The_ metal beam.)

Though he’d made every effort to be quiet as he made it up to the second level, it was still a little surprising that Derek hadn’t known he was there and come out from hiding, wherever he was. The thought had Stiles’ heart feeling heavy again, worried that Scott was wrong. But as he turned and let his eyes adjust to the dark, they fell onto the unmistakable shape of Derek’s body tucked into his bed like everything was fine, or so it would look if Stiles didn’t keep moving, didn’t step closer to his mattress to see that it wasn’t.

He was turned onto one side, his back facing Stiles, the sheets caught low around Derek’s hips, and he was bare from the waist up. He was curled in on himself almost defensively, and suddenly Stiles felt a growing discomfort, like he was sticking his nose where it didn’t belong, because watching Derek sleep was probably one of the creepier things he’d ever done. It was certainly on the list.

It wasn’t until he finally caught sight of faint, dark lines that dug across his arms and shoulders that he remembered why he was there at all, causing the vague discomfort to explode into something terrifying and concrete.

Scars. Recent scars.

There were a couple of reasons Stiles knew of that the marks hadn’t fully healed yet, but they were suddenly difficult to remember when he sliding forward again and his knees just barely touched the edge of Derek’s mattress. A whine of a whimper dissolved on the back of his tongue as he followed each jagged path, some curving around his bicep, and others crossing over his shoulder and disappearing somewhere along his obscured chest. Clearly, Stiles hadn’t been forced to watch those happen. They must have come after the video ended. And now he was wondering what else had happened, and if he really wanted to know.

He hadn’t even realized his hand was slowly reaching out until his fingertips ghosted across one raised scar on Derek’s shoulder and the touch nearly startled him. A soft gasp rose up at the back of his throat but it didn’t tumble free from his lips until Derek moved beneath him and rolled over a little onto his back.

He was, undoubtedly, alive. Stiles knew that should have been enough, it should have been his cue to leave before the alpha even knew he was there, but when he glanced up at his face, he found Derek looking back at him, heavy-lidded, glassy-eyed. Maybe still a bit drugged.

Stiles opened his mouth to speak, but it felt like his own heart was choking him with every pulse, and no sound ever came. He hadn’t even thought about how Derek might react. It hadn’t even crossed his mind. He was so concerned with making sure he wasn’t dying in a pool of his own blood to worry that he’d be angry.  Or terrified. Or never trust Stiles ever again. What if he thought he was still a demon? How could he convince him he wasn’t? Would he even want to speak to him? Did he know about the video?

His horrifying train of thought came to a crashing halt when Derek broke the silence instead.

“Why are you here?”

There wasn’t any heat to his words. They sounded tired. Almost inquisitive. Stiles had to force himself not to stare at the more aggressive marks—the ones that _his_ blade had caused—that tore across Derek’s stomach and chest, or else he’d never manage to reply.

“I’m just…I didn’t mean to--…” He sighed, and it was helpless and broken. “Are you okay?”

Derek looked a little confused at that, his brow furrowing and making him look so unbelievably young. Or maybe ‘young’ wasn’t quite the right word so much as vulnerable. He still looks dazed and weak and Stiles has to bite back a pitiful noise, because it’s _his_ fault he’s like that.

“I’m fine, Stiles,” he finally murmurs, his voice beginning to sound more rough than sleepy. Abused.

Stiles is quiet for a moment, rational thought finally returning to him before he answers just above a whisper, “I know what happened, you don’t have to lie to me.”

He doesn’t know what he expected, but Derek’s expression doesn’t really change. He just watches Stiles with the same glazed look in his eyes. He does start to look a little more tense, though, and that scares him almost more than the fact that he doesn’t reply, doesn’t even look like he’s trying to.

When the silence starts to feel too heavy, his courage falters.

“I just wanted to make sure you were all right. But…I guess you are, so, I’ll go. I’ll apologize my guts out later.”

He swallows hard and turns to leave, but then there’s something wrapping around his wrist and he freezes up. He looks down to see Derek’s hand closed around him, loose and maybe trembling just a little. Stiles waits, dumbfounded, not sure what’s going to come next and not brave enough to pull away. Not that he wants to. He’s struck by the overwhelming urge to _protect_ , the urge to right all the wrongs he’d been forced to do, and when Derek doesn’t let go, he hates himself for it, as if he should have known how to stop a demon from using his body like a puppet and harming the one person he was trying so hard to build up any trust with. The one person he’d almost gotten the strength to admit his feelings for.

Then Derek murmurs a single word, and his resolve crumbles.

“Don’t.”

Slowly, he releases Stiles’ wrist, like he’s _trusting_ him not to leave, and that’s when a tiny burst of courage returns to him. He steps out of his shoes and Derek moves back a little, giving Stiles room to crawl in next to him as if they’d done it a hundred times before. Stiles knows his heart has to be pounding hard enough to hurt Derek’s ears, but he doesn’t say anything if it does. It’s not like he could do much about it anyway.

But then Derek’s shifting back over onto his other side and away from Stiles, and he can’t tell if it’s out of a sudden discomfort or something else. He reaches out a hand to touch the werewolf’s shoulder and half expects it to be shoved away, or for Derek to shrink away from him, but he doesn’t. He just makes a low, indifferent noise and his chest heaves with a deep breath. Stiles takes that as permission to move in closer against his back—which is surprisingly scar-free—and rests his forehead against the triskelion with a soft sigh. There are still dozens of questions begging to be let free, but Derek doesn’t seem like he wants to talk, and he can’t blame him, so he keeps them there on his tongue.

He doesn’t realize how exhausted he really is until he falls asleep a minute later.

\---------

He’s safe in someone else’s bed when he wakes.

It’s almost startling at first when he forgets where he is, but when he finally remembers, his entire body relaxes, melts into the mattress and…into Derek’s arms. Where his forehead had been resting in between Derek’s shoulder-blades, it’s now nestled at the base of his throat, the bridge of his nose pressed gently against his collarbone.

It’s almost terrifying, how perfect it felt to wake up that way, warm and protected and blissfully unaware of anything outside of Derek’s bed—and everything that had happened the night before, at least for a moment. The only reason it was terrifying was because he knew Derek would wake up and say it was a mistake, that he wasn’t thinking clearly. That he was weak. Because of Stiles.

But then he felt Derek’s arm tighten around his waist and he hoped desperately the man was awake, and that he did it on purpose. He didn’t lift his head from where it was tucked up under his jaw, though, even when he spoke.

“Why am I not still possessed?”

It was hardly above a murmur, muffled against Derek’s furnace-warm skin, but he knew that if he was awake, he’d hear it, and then he’d know for sure whether or not Derek wanted him there. There was a short stretch of silence, and then came his response.

“I thought you said you knew what happened.”

It was sleep-soft, but crystal clear.

“I did—I do, I just…not all of it. There was a video…on my computer when I woke up,” he starts explaining nervously, feeling his pulse slowly begin to rise, along with an embarrassed, shameful heat in his face. But Derek doesn’t seem angry, just smoothes a large palm down along his spine, and _oh._ He’s in trouble.

“He said you were too difficult. That you had too much will-power to let him keep control over you for too long. Sooner rather than later, your body would find a way to reject him.”

 Derek still spoke gently, but there was a strange note of heart-breaking detachment in his voice, like he was trying so hard to forget it all, but he couldn’t.

“Why didn’t you try to stop me?”

Stiles’ hands curled up into tense fists against Derek’s chest, and when he shifted a little, he caught sight of the still-present scars etched into his skin, slightly more faint than they had been last night, but still noticeable.

“It wasn’t _you_ ,” Derek answered firmly.

“Doesn’t matter,” Stiles replies, feeling a bit like a fussy child who wasn’t getting the answers he wanted. “He drugged you, didn’t he?”

“Even if he hadn’t, I wouldn’t have stopped him.”

“Why not? Why’d you let me do that to you?”

“It would have meant hurting you.”

“Derek—“

“He said he’d leave if I didn’t fight. If I let him do what he wanted, he’d leave you alone. You’d be safe.”

There’s more silence again, when Stiles can’t find the right words, and he suddenly feels dizzy. Derek moves his arm, and for a terrifying second, he’s sure he’s going to push him away. But instead he just slides his hand up behind Stiles’ jaw, his palm a warm, comforting weight against the side of his throat where he holds him still. He starts wishing he could see Derek’s face, but maybe it was easier for the werewolf this way; easier to confess when they couldn’t see each other.

“He chose you because he knew it would destroy me the most.”

Stiles can hear the nervous swallow in Derek’s throat. Hell, he can _feel_ it. And finally, he can’t take it anymore. With his hands still pressed up against his chest, he pulls back and looks Derek right in the eye. He’s never been so nervous and so bold at the same time before. He licks at his lower lip out of a restless habit before murmuring:

“But it didn’t work, did it? I’d never hurt you like that, you know I wouldn’t.”

His words are almost desperate, like he can’t stand the thought of Derek not believing him. But he’s still processing the thought that the demon had specifically chosen Stiles because of what he meant to him. 

“I know you wouldn’t,” comes Derek’s reply, his eyes looking clear and bright in the pale morning sun, and Stiles aches all over. But suddenly his mind starts wandering in a different direction, and he remembers that Derek suffered more than just what Stiles watched on his computer. What if physical pain hadn’t been the only thing he’d had to endure? His stomach suddenly drops again and he starts tripping over his words.

“Derek, did I…did he…Please tell me he didn’t do anything else to you.”

His gaze flicks over the slowly fading scars—the nasty one that tears up across his abdomen in particular—and prays he won’t have to elaborate. It’s a relief when Derek shakes his head.

“He didn’t.”

“Oh thank _god,_ ” Stiles whimpers, a wound-up, relieved breath exploding from his chest. It’s all too much and he wants more and he’s terrified of what he wants, and then Derek’s hushing him and dragging him back in against his chest, with his lips pressed to Stiles’ forehead as he murmurs words meant to comfort him. Which is ridiculous, because Stiles wasn’t the one bound and gutted, he isn’t the one that should need to be comforted. But it seems to be relaxing Derek, too, as he feels the muscles beneath his hands slowly loosen, feels his chest rise and fall with each steady breath.

They stay like that for a minute, maybe two.

And then there’s no nervousness when he lifts his head back up again. No hesitance in the way he tips his chin up to capture Derek’s lips with his own, and swallow his gentle murmuring. It’s cautious and slow, but never shy. And Derek must be feeling the same, judging by the way he responds, fitting their mouths together like he’d been waiting for it to happen all morning. Maybe even longer, because they’re clearly both idiots who don’t deal well with emotion and probably could have been doing this ages ago. With a needy little sound that would likely embarrass him later, Stiles lifts his arms to wrap around the alpha’s neck and pull him in closer, a sudden wave of wantneedhavetohave overwhelming him like he needs Derek or else he’ll suffocate. And he really doesn’t want to test that theory.

He hardly even blinks before he realizes he’s on his back, and Derek is on top of him, still kissing him with a growing hunger that he has absolutely no desire to stop. There is a brief pause, though, when Derek pulls back onto his knees, and his dark hair is still messy from sleep, and his lips are parted and Stiles _whines_ like he can’t believe what’s happening isn’t some cruel joke.

But Derek just kind of stalls there, his hands at the hem of Stiles’ t-shirt like he’s suddenly realizing what’s going on, and he’s not sure what to do, and no, that’s not what Stiles wants to see at all. So he lifts his arms back up and runs his palms over Derek’s chest and up to his shoulders in a cautious, reverent gesture.

“Why are they taking so long to heal?” He murmurs, his thumb gently stroking along one pinkish line near the alpha’s collarbone.

“There’s probably still a little bit of the hybrid strain of wolfsbane in my system. It’s what he used to knock me out, it slows healing. But they’ll be gone soon.”

He says it like a promise, like he’s scared Stiles won’t find him attractive until he’s flawless again. But he couldn’t have been more wrong. And Stiles just slides his hands further up and around to the back of Derek’s neck so he can drag him down into another kiss, just to prove it. And in turn, he feels Derek’s hands slide up beneath his shirt, forcing him to gasp into their kiss because he’s finally getting the touch he’s craved for so long.

“Tell me to stop and I will,” Derek murmurs against his lips, very obviously giving Stiles a chance to say no, to slow things down. But they’d waited long enough.

“Please don’t stop…c’mon.”

Stiles wriggles a little beneath him in some effort to suggest that he wants his shirt off, he wants _everything_ off.  Derek’s warm and perfect and he’s suddenly burning up with the need to feel every inch of him, the way no one else can. He wants Derek to trust him to.

Stiles watches him pull back again and tug at his shirt with more intent this time, pulling it up and off of him. And Stiles couldn’t be happier to feel the rush of cool air against his skin when the heat of Derek’s chases it away. But this time he doesn’t go for Stiles’ mouth when he dips back down. He presses a quick kiss to the corner of his lips before he’s moving lower along his jaw and mouthing at the soft bit of skin beneath his ear. It has Stiles tipping his head back with a shaky moan and his fingers clutching harder at Derek’s hair, because that’s definitely a sensitive spot he never knew he had.

Then it’s Stiles turn to let his touch drift a little lower, as he finally manages to tear his hands away in order to slide them down the powerful muscles in Derek’s back. His fingertips skim along the waistband of his sleeping pants, from the back around to the front of his hips, and he tugs at it just a little. But apparently Derek isn’t finished with his neck, yet, because he just presses forward and rocks his hips against Stiles’ as he finds a new spot to latch onto, over his pulse, and it has the human mewling like he doesn’t know what to do with himself.

What he _wants_ is to wraps his legs around Derek’s waist, because every nerve in his body is telling him that’s just what you do in this kind of position, but when he squirms beneath him, he’s reminded that there’s still far too much clothing involved, and that thought brings a pout to his lips.

“Derek--…”

He whines his name and that finally gets his attention. But when he stops assaulting Stiles’ throat and pulls back, there’s a concerned look in his eyes like he’s worried he’s done something wrong. He doesn’t say anything, though, just lets his gaze flicker across Stiles’ body beneath him.

“Can we…” Stiles gestures vaguely between them and licks his lips, “Please? I want you to.” He adds the last part in a rush and maybe just a little too loudly when he suddenly realizes that Derek’s probably hesitant because he’s waiting for explicit permission to take things further, and his chest aches a little. The worried look disappears from Derek’s face and his eyes darken again, pupils blown as he bends down and captures a nipple between blunt teeth. He breathes a soft, “Yeah,” against Stiles’ skin, but he doesn’t hear it over his own gasp. It’s followed by a whimpered curse, because if Derek keeps discovering these weak spots like he already knows where they are, he won’t make it.

His back arches automatically, and it pushes his chest up against Derek’s mouth, but it’s almost a relief when he feels the soft heat of his lips start to move lower and it lets him catch his breath. Derek shifts back a little on his knees and works his way lower still, mouthing along Stiles’ navel and following the sharp curve of his hip, nipping at his pale skin and soothing each mark with a kiss or a sweep of his tongue as he starts tugging at Stiles’ pajama pants, working them off of his hips inch by inch and devouring every bit of skin as it’s unveiled. It’s torture, and they both seem to love it.

It’s getting harder for him to think clearly, when all the blood is rushing to more important parts of his body, and his own pulse is pounding in his ears, but he can’t stand the silence anymore.

“This isn’t exactly what I figured our first time would be like,” he blurts out, regretting it as soon as the words leave his lips. He meant it as a good thing, but it probably didn’t sound like that. Just as he dreaded, Derek stops, and lifts his head a little.

“What did you figure it would be like?”

He’s starting to look worried again, and insecurity is a terrible look for Derek.

“I didn’t mean it like a bad thing, I just…you know, I assumed it would probably start with you shoving me up against a wall and we’d…end up on the floor or something.” He cringes at his own words, and wonders how badly he’s fucking things up now. “Not that you’re always like that. Sometimes I just forget the big bad alpha can still be gentle.” His voice trails off into a heavy silence and he waits to see if he’s ruined everything.

But Derek doesn’t look mad; doesn’t even look that concerned anymore. He just presses another kiss to Stiles’ hip and murmurs against his skin:

“I promised myself that if I was ever lucky enough to finally have you, I wouldn’t be like that. You deserve better.”

For a brief moment, Stiles wonder if Derek’s actually talking about himself, that Stiles deserves better than _him,_ but he can’t bear the thought because it’s so ridiculously inaccurate. But before he can reply, Derek’s speaking again, looking back up at him with a faint smirk teasing at his lips, and _oh,_ that’s so much better.

“That is, unless, you’d prefer it on the floor. But I kind of figured the bruises could wait a little while longer.”

A sudden moan is pressing at the back of Stiles’ throat and his cock twitches at the thought. And it’s all totally unfair because he wasn’t expecting those kinds of words when he was still concerned he’d insulted Derek and ruined the mood. And it makes the wolf’s grin widen just a bit into something wonderful and…well, wolfish. Then he’s slowly tugging Stiles’ pants down his thighs at last and he lifts his hips in an eager attempt to help.

He’s completely bare a second later—his pants ending up in a heap somewhere that he couldn’t care less about—and the cool air around them is almost a relief against his flushed skin. A second after that, though, he nearly begins to feel self-conscious about the whole thing, because the list of people who have seen him naked is very short. But Derek is quick to stop those awful thoughts as he descends for a greedy kiss and presses him back down into the mattress with a sound that’s incredibly close to a growl.

“I’d hate to get ahead of myself and start marking you up so soon,” he murmurs into Stiles’ mouth, rocking his hips forward and letting him feel just how much of an effect he has on the alpha. It earns Derek another broken whimper and his own name, spoken like a frustrated plea, because there’s _still fucking clothes on him._

Stiles doesn’t even feel bad about how impatient he must seem as he let his hands trail over Derek’s abs and down to his pants for a second attempt to get them off. He tugs and pushes and finally Derek pulls back to help, shoving them down from his hips. Stiles might be gaping at him, just a little.

“Fuck…come _on_ , Derek, please…You’re killing me here, and it’s about to go from metaphorical to literal.” Another tiny pout springs to his lips when Derek chuckles, but it’s soft and painfully affectionate, and his smile is devastating in the best kind of way.

“I’ve never let you die before, I don’t plan on starting now,” he hums in response before shifting on the bed and finally, _finally_ letting his own pants join the pile of clothing on the floor. Stiles’ chest heaves with a deep breath he’d apparently been holding and lunges forward to drag Derek down into a greedy kiss. A breathless moan tumbles from both of their mouths as they fit back together, and Stiles gets to wrap his thighs around Derek’s hips like he’s wanted to all morning. And his theory is confirmed that, yes, it’s _so_ much better without pants.

He isn’t even sure he’d need much more to come. His body feels so tightly wound he might be trembling, and he’s so hard it almost hurts. It’s a small comfort knowing that at the very least he won’t be spilling himself in his pants like the teenager he so recently was, but if he had his way, this would go on all morning. All day.

But then he’s dimly aware that Derek’s pulling away and leaning over to dig through the nightstand next to his bed, a wonky piece of furniture he’d found on the side of the road. Stiles licked his lips and waited, and Derek’s hand returned a moment later with a small bottle of lubricant, looking like it had hardly ever been used. Hopefully just on himself.

Stiles isn’t even aware of the fact that he’s starting to get nervous before Derek notices it first, probably in the way his heart-rate starts to jump. He’s had sex before, but he’s never done what he wants to do with Derek.

“Hey—relax,” he murmurs, carding his free hand through Stiles’ hair and dropping a kiss to his forehead. “I’m not--…we’re not quite there yet. Later, I promise.”

Stiles feels his chest grow tight at the thought that there’s going to be a ‘later’ at all, that Derek seems to want this—them, him—just as much as he does. He didn’t like to admit it, but there was still a speck of doubt hiding in his thoughts, the possibility that this could all end as horribly as it had started.

He gives a little nod and tips his chin up in search of a kiss as he agrees softly:

“Later.”

Derek doesn’t deny him. He leans down to claim his mouth in a reassuring kiss and while Stiles’ eyes are closed, he feels him shift on top of him, brace himself on one arm and wrap a suddenly-slick palm around both of their cocks. His arms tighten around Derek’s shoulders and drag him down impossibly close, but the gasp that forces itself from his throat has him panting for breath. Derek doesn’t seem to mind that it ends their kiss, though. He just takes it as an opportunity to press in close against Stiles’ throat again, and he’s rewarded with a needy whimper of a sigh. He’d always known that werewolves had a thing for _throats_ but he’d never anticipated how much he would love it that they did. Or maybe it’s just a Derek thing, but he doesn’t care. Either way, he lets his head fall back and it offers the pale length of his neck to his new lover, who takes it with an appreciative groan.

It’s not until Stiles starts rolling his hips up against Derek and into his hand that he realizes how close he is. He wants all of it, he wants so much more, he wants Derek inside of him, wrapped around him, pinning him down or holding him up, he wasn’t about to get picky. But right _now_ , all he wants is to come, to have Derek _make him_ come. He doesn’t know he’s mumbling the alpha’s name until the words turn into a strung-out whine and he muffles himself with Derek’s shoulder, teeth sinking into soft skin over hard muscle.

The bite gets him another growl from Derek, but it sounds like a good noise, so he doesn’t stop.

“Come for me, Stiles,” he whispers against his ear, a tongue dragging over his pulse and chasing away the soft burn from his stubble.

“Derek, please--…” Stiles _keens_ when he feels Derek’s hand twist up and the pad of his thumb tease across the head of his cock, where he’s flushed and dripping pre-cum. Derek bites gently at the top of his shoulder where it slopes into his neck, and that’s it. He chokes on a sob as he comes between them, spilling himself over the alpha’s hand and their stomachs, making a pearly mess of them both and it feels almost shamefully incredible.

He’s still a gasping, trembling wreck when he feels Derek’s body go rigid against his own, and he rocks his hips up in a feeble attempt to get Derek to join him there. He’s so sensitive now, when the wave of his climax starts to recede, but for a little bit, it only seems to amplify the feeling of Derek’s skin sliding against his own, silken-soft and hot enough to burn. He hears Derek’s breath catch low in his throat and feels the heat of his broken moan where it pours over Stiles’ own neck. And it’s such a perfect, unguarded sound; he can’t wait until he gets to hear it again. He wants to _make_ Derek make that sound again.

It’s another few seconds before Derek finally releases them, soft and spent. Stiles is still clinging to his shoulders like he doesn’t know how else to function, but then Derek’s peppering his shoulder and neck and cheek with soft, tired kisses, and he melts all over again with a sigh. He knows there has to be a dopey grin on his face when Derek finally gets to pull back, but there’s not a single inch of him that cares. He happily sags into the mattress and watches Derek reach back into his nightstand for some tissues, and finally feels a little heat in his cheeks when he looks down at the absolute mess they made, streaks of white staining his pink-flushed skin.

“It’s a good look on you,” Derek teases gently, leaning back down to steal a proper kiss while he wipes at his stomach. Stiles just grins and tangles a lazy hand in his alpha’s hair.

“You like it? It’s new. From the ‘Utterly Debauched’ collection by Derek Hale.”

Stiles knows he has to be rolling his eyes at the terrible joke (not that he can be blamed for it; apparently his verbal filter is even worse post-orgasm and that’s hardly his fault) but then there’s that fond laugh on Derek’s lips again, and he devours it with another kiss.  

“Sounds expensive.”

“Yeah. But totally worth it.”

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from Monarchy's 'Disintegration' if anyone is curious~
> 
> Thanks for reading!
> 
> If my crummy writing hasn't scared you off, I'm also open to prompts, because why not.


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